“It is a good stretch of road to Mokotov,” said Zagloba; “and harsh sorrow is waiting for us at the bedside of Ketling. Drink something, Michael, to gain strength to endure all this, for you are greatly reduced.”
Saying this, Zagloba took the bottle from the hands of the man and filled both glasses with Hungarian so old that it was thick from age.
“This is a goodly drink,” said Zagloba, placing the bottle on the ground and taking the goblets. “To the health of Ketling!”
“To his health!” repeated Pan Michael. “Let us hurry!”
They emptied the glasses at a draught.
“Let us hurry,” repeated Zagloba. “Pour out, man!” said he, turning to the servant. “To the health of Pan Yan! Let us hurry!”
They emptied the goblets again at a draught, for there was real urgency.
“Let us take our seats!”
